


No Words For Such As We

by stonecoldsilly



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Feelings Realization, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Is Tired, Hair Braiding, M/M, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, The Traditional Bath Scene, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28373928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly
Summary: He smiled, and the sheer fondness visible on his face was too hard to look at directly, like squinting into open sunlight. Geralt just huffed again, trying to convey the exhaustion and how little he wanted to submit to the tedium of undressing without going to the effort of words....sometimes Geralt doesn't need to say anything at all.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 40
Kudos: 274
Collections: Geraskier Holiday Exchange 2020





	No Words For Such As We

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moretomhardy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moretomhardy/gifts).



> for moretomhardy, who asked for _Literally anything with Jaskier braiding Geralt's hair_
> 
> merry christmas!!!!

It was a bruxa, he was sure of it. The problem was that there was no way to catch her, and the guards up at the keep had sneered in his face when he approached the gates. 

He could have snuck in, or overpowered them, but the weariness of a long week’s hunting, tracking her through woodland and marsh, field and fen, had hit him all at once, the weight of missed sleep and forced marches pulling at his eyelids until all his strength was sapped. 

He nodded, letting none of his weakness show on his face, and trudged slowly back down to the village, picking his feet up carefully and measuring every step so he wouldn’t tip sideways into sleep right there by the side of the road. 

The world blurred around him, soft at the edges and too foggy to think through. He was in no true shape to fight her anyway, and resigned himself to whatever consequences that night would bring. She’d slain three in White Bridge, where the hunt had begun, and he’d followed her trail of destruction over what felt like half the North. 

She’d be weak too, after the long chase, but if he fought her now, he’d die with her, and their lessons at Kaer Morhen had always emphasised conserving their strength. 

He shambled into the village, dim lights of the inn faintly visible through the hanging mist, and trudged over to the horse trough, dunking his head in to shock himself awake. The brisk chill cleared some of the seeping fog of his thoughts, and he caught a few crisp drops of water on his tongue in a limp effort to savour the cold.

Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, White Wolf and Witcher of wide renown, shook himself like a drying dog and headed into the warmth of the tavern. Later he would blame his tiredness for the fact that his senses were dimmed, but the truth was that Jaskier’s music was such a part of everyday life that it had seeped into his very bones, and seemed as natural as birdsong, or the wind, implacable and only noticeable in its absence.

The door opened beneath his aching fist, and no bellowed chorus greeted him, nor shouts of merriment. The humans were all still, all staring at Jaskier, who looked as home leaning against the mantelpiece of the hearth as he did everywhere, on the road or mingling with royalty. He had a talent for taking possession of a room, drawing the gaze subtly, but invitingly enough that Geralt felt included in the joke. 

A few of them turned their heads and glared as he walked in, but for no more reason than that his entrance had disturbed them from the spell of the music. Jaskier’s eyes were closed, lost in the sweet strains of Elaine Ettariel, and the quiet over the inn intensified as Geralt stood in the doorway peaceably, resting against a welcome pillar.

Jaskier looked well rested and unhurt, cheeks flush with the warmth of the firelight playing over his face. Geralt could trace the tiny drop of sweat that trickled from his brow in the heat of the song and the hearth, and he slipped without meaning to into a dreamlike meditation, staring with eyes half lidded at Jaskier’s face as he played, the reassurance of his presence too great a balm to deny.

He dozed for a while, instead of fighting it, and then a sudden roar of applause startled him back to wakefulness. Jaskier was already making his way towards him through the crowd, happiness so clear and obvious in his scent that Geralt smiled back reflexively. He slung the saddlebags over his shoulder and let a stifled groan escape him at the sudden weight of it, watching as Jaskier danced and darted around eager well-wishers in his haste to greet Geralt.

Jaskier beamed as he approached, and then they were together again, Jaskier’s arms slung around him and the warm tickle of his soft hair pressed too briefly against his cheek. He had no energy to protest the overfamiliarity, or the damage it might cause his fearsome reputation, but only swayed as Jaskier released him, blinking a little in dulled surprise.

The saddlebags slid off his shoulder, and he tried to grab for them too late, but Jaskier was slinging them over his own shoulder and patting his arm, chivvying him along and smiling away the curious onlookers. ‘Come on.’ he said, and Geralt followed, too slow and sleep-drunk to protest. 

Jaskier shooed him up the rickety stairs to a room at the end of the hallway, and if Geralt had been a different man he would have wept at the sight of the plush bed. He wasn’t, though, and merely let out a hum of approval that made Jaskier’s smile widen, if such a thing were possible.

Jaskier towed him over to a low wooden table and chair, fluttering around him like a hummingbird. He sat heavily, grateful beyond measure, and then noticed the two steaming plates of food waiting there, raising an eyebrow that he hoped conveyed his surprise.

‘I saw Roach and knew you wouldn’t be far off.’ Jaskier said, amused at his own cleverness, and the delight of pulling such a glorious trick on the White Wolf.

He ate gladly and hurriedly, barely tasting the stew, as Jaskier draped himself over the back of the chair languidly and watched with no small hint of satisfaction. He made no move to eat his own plate or burst into his usual chatter or tales, seemingly content to smile lazily and let Geralt eat in peace. It seemed so out of character that Geralt slowed down slightly and peered at him.

Jaskier snorted, and pushed the second plate towards him with an arch look on his face. 

‘Yes, it is actually me, no, I’m not bothering you. You look half-dead, and I am being very, very nice to you.’

He hummed, letting the dim flicker of curiosity gutter out, and set about clearing his second plate steadily as an easy peace settled over the room. The slow rhythmic thumping of Jaskier’s heart was lulling him under again, and he slumped further into his chair even as he ate.

When he finished, he pushed the plate away with a sigh, and flopped his head back to look up at Jaskier plaintively. He smiled, and the sheer fondness visible on his face was too hard to look at directly, like squinting into open sunlight. Geralt just huffed again, trying to convey the exhaustion and how little he wanted to submit to the tedium of undressing without going to the effort of words.

‘Don’t sulk, I’ll help.’

Jaskier leaned closer and tipped Geralt’s chin up with the gentlest press of his fingers, soft warmth just brushing the edge of his stubble, and a little shudder fizzed through his spine. 

‘Petulant little thing, aren’t you? Positively spoiled rotten.’

He raised an eyebrow, trying to keep his expression from betraying him, still aware of the idle tracing of Jaskier’s fingers at the very edge of his jawline, but Jaskier knew him too well by now, had seen him in sorrow and joy both.

‘I know what you’re thinking, fool of a Witcher.’ Jaskier scowled and lowered his voice comically. ‘A soft Witcher is a dead Witcher.’ Geralt stuck his tongue out in response, meeting childishness with childishness. 

Jaskier snorted. ‘Never mind that a single night of comfort would leave you better prepared for the next day’s hunt.’

He blinked slowly, and then Jaskier was gone, kneeling on the wooden floor by his feet and grasping his ankle firmly. 

A flush of almost-shame rose in his chest, as he stared down at the crown of Jaskier’s head in bewildered shock. 

Jaskier slipped each foot from his boot, and left him in his stockinged feet, strangely vulnerable on the wooden floors. His toes curled, that raw, scraped open feeling overcoming him once more, but it was only Jaskier, and that was the crux of it all. 

The last person to remove his shoes for him when he’d been awake and sensate enough to do it himself had probably been his mother, in the muddied memories of being a human. It would have been sordid, or servile, coming from anyone other than Jaskier, but Geralt knew there were liberties he had allowed the human to take, and kept on allowing, for reasons he hadn’t dared examine too closely. Jaskier was the only one who had slipped his guard and earned his trust, proving himself worthy of it with every display of the easy kindness that came so naturally to him.

The hush of the room was overwhelming in its intimacy, only the soft crackle of the fire, and Jaskier’s steady breaths audible. He had no strength left to fight, to put up his usual scowl and pull back where Jaskier might push. It felt as though he might fall over the precipice in the next heartbeat, and as soon as the thought swam through his sluggish mind he recognised that it was too late. 

Instead he surrendered, wholeheartedly, gladly, choosing to submit with good grace to Jaskier’s wishes, and follow where he lead. If Jaskier had been the one to return to him exhausted and weakened, then Geralt would have done the same, and it no longer frightened him to admit it. 

‘Oh look, there you are.’ Jaskier said, smiling up at him, and Geralt realised a slow smile had broken out on his own face, broad and full enough to pull at his cheeks, entirely different from the usual smirk he allowed himself. 

He watched Jaskier through near closed eyes, as he knelt between Geralt’s outstretched legs and began to attack the braces and buckles that kept the armour digging into his sides. There was no need to be on guard, with Jaskier here, and Kaer Morhen rose in his memories before he could stop it, the feeling of safety too similar, though the keep was leagues from this battered old inn.

A few minutes of quick, nimble movements later had him freed, bare in his shirtsleeves and trousers. Jaskier turned his wrists over to unlace the straps of his bracers, and he stayed limp in his seat, only his eyes moving to track the slightly sweaty flick of hair that kept threatening to fall over his blue eyes, the slightest peek of his tongue visible as he bent over the laces in concentration, and the glimpse of vulnerable collarbone just visible at the top of his half-laced shirt.

Jaskier tugged his gloves off slowly, darting a swift glance up at his face as he did so. He seemed satisfied with what he found there, and rested his elbows atop Geralt’s thighs, reaching up to tackle the frayed ribbon of his shirt. Geralt remained still, curious as to what he would do next with a Witcher at his disposal, as limp as he had been when he sagged into the chair so as not to spook him, half feeling like a grizzled old wolf watching a lamb play between its paws, or perhaps some venomous snake dazzled by its charmer, or perhaps they weren’t animals at all, and his tired thoughts were fuzzy and worn at the edges, a whole menagerie dancing through his mind, and then he jerked back awake as Jaskier patted his thigh gently.

‘Up we get, there’s a good boy.’ Jaskier said, standing and offering a deceptively delicate looking hand. Geralt knew the strength they concealed, what the fine bones and paper-thin skin at his wrists tried to hide. He could bear the weight of a Witcher and had done in the past, when the need arose. He grasped Jaskier’s hand like the lifeline it was, and let himself be heaved up swiftly. Jaskier bowed under the heft of him, but did not break, tugging his arm over broad shoulders and leading him over to the bath still steaming in the corner of the room.

He shucked his trousers drunkenly, paying no heed to how close Jaskier stood, no longer weary, but rather desperate to wash the grime from his skin now the option was presented to him. He managed to reach the edge of the tub unassisted and heaved himself into the water with a grateful sigh.

Jaskier took one cloth, and he took another, and together they made short work of it. Geralt hadn’t balked at the feeling of Jaskier’s hands on his skin in years now, and marvelled that there had ever been a time when having him at his back unseen had been anything other than a comfort. It _had_ been strange at first, setting all his hard-won instincts ablaze, but now Jaskier felt like an extension of himself, that no sooner had he thought of an ache or sore spot than Jaskier’s gentle hands were already there, a gentler counterpoint to his own economical scrubbing. 

He relaxed into the warmth as Jaskier took over getting the muck out of his hair, absentmindedly firing a weak Igni into the water as he pondered his choice further. The more he thought, the more right it seemed, as though someone had presented Geralt with all the aspects of himself he knew to be absent, real and alive in one human, and then dared him not to fall in love. Jaskier was all the things a Witcher could not be, and Geralt was drawn to him, helpless with fascination. His eyes closed once more, as he mused on the vagaries of love, and he drifted off to Jaskier’s fingers scritching peaceably at his scalp. 

He woke once more to Jaskier smiling up at him, dizzy with dreams, and blinking the weight of sleep from his eyes was more difficult than ever. It took a minute to realise where he was, the lingering déjà vu tilting the world on its axis, but he clambered out of the bath when Jaskier beckoned, slumping on the edge of the bed in a towel and waiting with dull patience for whatever came next to separate him from sleep. 

Jaskier settled him and hummed idly as he searched his bag, finally producing a fine ivory comb Geralt had seen him use on his own short hair. His eyes were glazed with thought, but no questions passed his lips, and Geralt hadn’t really expected there to be any, given the state he was in. Details of the long hunt and actually catching the bruxa could wait until the morning, when he could summon the energy to stand unaided. He made his way round the bed as Geralt watched, too sleepy to do anything else. Jaskier held up the comb triumphantly, and chucked at the expression on his face. 

‘I’ll be quick, I promise. Then you can sleep.’ 

And with that he ducked closer and pressed a swift kiss to Geralt’s cheek. 

All the tiredness burned straight out of his head, shocking him awake, and he clenched his fists desperately in the blankets to stop himself from swaying helplessly closer for more. 

Jaskier patted his shoulder absentmindedly and climbed onto the bed, arranging himself at Geralt’s back to brush his hair, and gone was any chance of trying to read his expression. 

His thoughts raced now, awake and alive to the possibilities, jumping ahead to passionate embraces and a love returned before he could stop them, hardly daring to hope. Jaskier was a sociable man, and affectionate with those lucky enough to be called his friend, but a kiss, even a friendly one, was never something he had bestowed upon Geralt before, and he worried that his every thought had been so clear and visible on his face, that some expression had betrayed the well of love that threatened to spill from his mouth with every gesture of Jaskier’s kind nature. 

He barely had time to reason with himself before Jaskier’s hands were in his hair, and the soothing pull of the brush settled his shoulders back down from where he’d been tensed. It prickled at him, that he couldn’t turn and see Jaskier for himself, but the bard’s heartbeat was steady and strong in his ear, and contentment was the only thing he could scent, settling warm and comfortably in his lungs. 

He hummed a little, and Jaskier picked up the melody at once and sang the tune under his breath, combing strands of hair back into some semblance of order. 

‘I’m just going to braid it, so it doesn’t get in the way while you sleep.’ 

Jaskier had asked once before, when they were still barely more than acquaintances who shared a direction of travel, whether he would allow his hair to be braided. Geralt had sneered at the time, or done something equally brutish, too untrusting of anyone at his back to allow the insult to stand. Now nothing seemed so natural in all the world, and Jaskier knew somehow that he would allow it, would allow him anything. Wearing the bard’s handiwork for all to see was almost something out of the old high romances, and he was suddenly eager for it. 

He separated the hair into three strands, and seemed to be using the same simple pattern that Geralt used on Roach’s tail, nothing fussy to call attention, just a practical braid best suited to both a Witcher and his horse, without even having to be asked. 

‘Do you know, I was so pleased when I saw Roach in the stables. I knew you wouldn’t be far off, and it made my night seem shorter, to know that the waiting would be over.’ 

Geralt hummed in agreement, thinking of how he hadn’t listened for Jaskier’s lute, or his conscious mind hadn’t noticed it as separate from himself, but that he would know it even miles distant, and his feet would always carry him closer. He could recognise the particular rhythm of Jaskier’s heartbeat through a crowd of hundreds, or the precise gait of his steps from tracks a week old. He knew Jaskier, as Jaskier knew him, and it seemed a pleasant thought to have. 

‘I saw you standing there when I finished playing, and I can hardly explain it, but the thought came to me, quite unbidden... I saw you, and I thought…’ 

His heart pounded wildly in his chest, and Geralt’s raced to match it, the heavy scent of thunder filling the room with tension. 

‘I thought… that this must be what coming home feels like.’ 

He nodded once, jerking against the hand that still clutched the end of the braid, and Jaskier sighed, relief and contentment blooming rich in Geralt’s lungs. It was strange, to hear his own thoughts voiced aloud, but who better than a poet to speak them? Jaskier was braver than he, in matters such as this, and he could not remain silent in the face of it. 

He hummed in agreement once more, and then nimble fingers were tying off his braid and sweeping it gently to rest over his bare shoulder. 

A weight, a breath, and then the softest brush of lips grazed the nape of his neck. Geralt gasped at the burn of it, the searing heat that blazed through him at even the most chaste kiss, but then the warmth of Jaskier’s body was pulling away, and sour anxiety replaced the sweet honey warmth on his tongue. The chance was slipping away, the endless possibilities closing off one by one, and his throat was too tightly closed, too thick with choked feeling to save him now. 

He grasped blindly behind him for Jaskier’s dear hands, clutching his fingers desperately and interlocking them tightly as he could. There were no words for it, no words he could muster, but he couldn’t bear to lose this. He tugged Jaskier forward, flush against his bare back, and pressed a clumsy kiss to the back of his hand, awkward but fervent. 

All at once Jaskier’s scent rose and crested around him, the sheer joy like crisp apples fizzing in his nose, like a thousand silver bells pealing at once, like being caught in a beam of pure sunlight. He laughed for the sheer pleasure of it, and Jaskier was laughing too, and weeping all at once, and pressing eager kisses to every inch of Geralt’s bare skin he could reach. 

Geralt could no longer restrain himself, but rolled them over quickly, keen to see Jaskier’s face once more. The open delight on his face was matched only by his own, a thousand fears risen and forgotten all at once, in one sweet moment of perfect joy. He leaned over Jaskier, who was wriggling and giddy with relief, and committed the sight of him to memory, flushed and raw with feeling, tender and laid bare beneath him, his whole heart and soul visible for any who had eyes to see it. 

He kissed the tracks of happy tears on that beloved face, the sweetest salt in all the world, and smiled. He hadn’t uttered a single word all night, and yet Jaskier knew the very heart of him. 

No words were necessary, in the end, for what words could be needed? Their hopes and fears were united, each thought so clearly read on the other’s face, so well known and dearer to each than their own. 

Geralt sank onto the bed, and into happiness, and into true sleep at last, Jaskier still laughing softly in his ear, caught tight in his arms. 

_._

**Author's Note:**

> first thing i've managed to scrape out in two months, my goodness, please validate me i beg <3


End file.
